


Fear the Riders

by darkblood



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, no beta we die like men, no kiss kiss just cry cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24223027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkblood/pseuds/darkblood
Summary: A reason for Diarmuid to be wary of newcomers.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 7
Kudos: 49





	Fear the Riders

There was a certain hill near the monastery that Diarmuid liked to frequent during his free time, where the grass seemed softest and the clovers grew aplenty. The mute would often find him there, simply looking at the scenery, or watching the clouds go by. When he sat next to his small friend, the boy would often think aloud, going on about nothing in particular, but his speech was always soft and soothing to listen to. 

Today, there was little talk. They spent their time feeling the breeze on their skin, and watching the tall grass ripple with the wind. Every now and then, the mute would look over to see a quiet peace on the boy’s face, which brought peace to his own heart. His life had changed for the better since Diarmuid found him, and he was thankful for every moment after that. He would give everything to show his gratitude.

Diarmuid suddenly sat up straighter, and his eyes squinted at something off in the distance. The mute turned to see what he was looking at and spotted two horses with three riders seemingly headed in their direction, towards the monastery. 

The mute rose from his spot, dusting off loose grass stuck to his pants. He started making his way towards the stables, taking note of the sound of Diarmuid rising from his own spot behind him. The mute was no monk, nor could he ever be one, but the men allowed him to stay, most likely due to Diarmuid. He became a layhand for them, and generally tended to the horses, their own as well as visitors, as rarely as that occurred. Still, it seemed to be one of those times, so he made his way to the stables to prepare for the newcomers.

It wasn’t beyond him, however, that these riders in particular didn’t have cargo of any kind with them. He wondered if they were messengers then. He carefully moved things aside in the stable to make it easier to tie up the horses upon their arrival. 

He heard a scream, and he whipped his head up in the direction. He could just make out that the riders had dismounted and were on the ground. He heard the voice cry out again, and he knew that voice. 

It was Diarmuid. 

He grabbed the nearest tool and ran. He had no idea who these newcomers were, or why they came here, but all he knew was if they hurt Diarmuid in any way, they didn’t deserve to be here any longer.

The scene became clearer the closer he got. The three men had wrestled Diarmuid to the ground and were doing their best to hold him there while the youth frantically fought against them. He could see one hand trying to muffle the boy unsuccessfully, but the other hands were out of sight. He realized that they were somewhere inside the boy’s robes. All the while, the Diarmuid kept crying out in a panic.

“Please! Let me go! Let me _go!_ _Please!_ ”

An old hatred in his veins started to burn, and the mute had no hesitation in jamming the hoof pick into the upper spine of the closest man, the one at Diarmuid’s feet. The man barely had time to let out a scream of his own before the mute torqued the tool between bones and sharply pulled out, severing the spine and dragging out pieces of veins and flesh in the process. He watched muscles momentarily spasm and loose all rigidity before falling into a sickening pile on the ground. The other riders, witnessing their companions demise, quickly rose, one unsheathing their own weapon while the other started to drag Diarmuid away towards their horses. 

He stepped forward to follow after Diarmuid, but the armed man intercepted. His eyes were wild and twitched when he gave the sword in his hand a twirl before going in for a stab. The mute narrowly dodged, grabbing the man’s wrist in one hand, then slamming down his own elbow into the other man’s extended one, hearing the crack of separation accompanied by his screams. He let go of the wrist and punched him the face, feeling the nose break from the impact. With a swing of his leg, he hooked the other man and knocked him to the ground, then finished him off with the pick to the neck, ripping it open. He could hear the blood gurgle as the man drew his last breaths, eyes large until all movement stopped. 

The mute frantically looked around to see the final man trying to force Diarmuid onto the horse. Sick of the child’s protests, he knocked the wind out of him with a swift blow to the stomach, causing Diarmuid to double over. The mute was barely even aware of his own actions at this point as he grabbed the other man by his hair and broke his neck over his knee. After a stomp to the windpipe for good measure, the mute looked around and saw Diarmuid half crawling to get away. 

He rushed to the boy’s side, grabbing him to see if he was okay, only to have Diarmuid fight against him.

“No!” he screamed, keeping his face hidden as possible. “No! Let me go! Let me go!”

The mute held the boy’s arm tight, using his other hand to try to grab Diarmuid’s face. He needed the boy to look at him, to see it was _him_ , his _friend_ , that he was _safe_. The boy kept fighting, so the man had to use both hands to hold his face still enough to look the mute in the eyes.

It took a moment for the fear to leave Diarmuid’s face, for the harsh breathing to break down into sobs, and for the boy to cling to him, burying his face into his friend’s chest. The mute held him tight, resting his chin on the Diarmuid’s head, gently rocking him. 

Soon, a few of the monks appeared, and they stared in disbelief at the bodies surrounding the quiet man and their youngest brother. The mute turned his head away from the monks. He couldn’t withstand their judging looks right now, the looks that knew just how dangerous the man could be. In a feeble attempt to hide, he buried his face into Diarmuid’s hair as the boy continued to cry against him. 

The fear of them kicking him out of the monastery was starting to clog his throat. All he wanted was to protect Diarmuid, the only good thing in his life. He held the boy tighter and pleaded silently that they wouldn’t separate them. 

It felt like an eternity before one of the monks finally spoke.

“Grab that one,” he said, indicating the one remaining horse grazing nearby. The other must have ran home. “Put it with the other horses. We’ll figure out how to deal with it at a later time.”

Footsteps approached, and the mute closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. He tried to focus Diarmuid’s breathing and his grip against his back. 

The footsteps stopped, and he heard the man kneel down before them. The mute finally opened his eyes to receive his repercussions. Brother Ciaran looked back at him with calm eyes. 

“Are you both alright?”

The mute hadn’t expected that. He looked down at Diarmuid and petted the boy’s hair before pressing his mouth against the crown of his head. The sobbing had died down, but Diarmuid made no move to face the others.

“I have a feeling I now know why you have so many scars,” he continued. There was no anger in his words, just heavy realization and sadness. “Thank you for protecting him.”

The mute looked the other man in the eye and nodded slowly. 

“While I don’t fully approve of your actions, I understand they were those of good intentions. For now, I ask you to take care of them while I and the others take care of our brother.”

The mute looked at the bodies, then to the monks who were keeping safe distance from the massacre. He looked back at Brother Ciaran and rubbed Diarmuid’s back, asking a silent question.

“You may visit him after you are done,” he said, adding a weak smile. “I do ask you to clean up beforehand.”

His hands were flaked in blood, as were his sleeves, and presumably his face if the liquid he was feeling was in fact blood and not sweat. His mouth tightened for a moment, then reluctantly released his hold on Diarmuid. Diarmuid slowly sat up and roughly wiped his face with his hands to get rid of any residual tears. The boy and the mute exchanged looks, neither one really seemed keen on leaving the other.

“Come, novice. Let us clean you up.”

Diarmuid looked down, his face uncomfortable, before he finally stood. He let himself be escorted back to the monastery, looking back only once at his friend who was standing, staring after him. When they were a good distance away, the mute walked over and dislodged his hoof pick from one of the dead men’s neck. The small tool was now stained dark with blood, the wood of the handle still dripping. He gripped it tight, then flinched at the sound coming from his left. 

The first man he attacked, the one with the severed spine, was making noises helplessly on the ground. The mute walked to him with little hurry and rolled the man over with his foot. The man’s face was still moving as he was trying to breathe, whimpering, eyes watering. The mute crouched down, staring at the man and felt a familiar hollowness in his chest, the kind gained from overexposure. He looked at the bloodied pick in his hand, feeling the weight of the tool carefully before he put the other man out of his misery. He first cleaned the tool with the grass, then his shirt as he walked to retrieve a shovel from the toolshed. He’d bury the bodies just outside of the property, somewhere in a valley, in a place where Diarmuid wouldn’t be able to see it from his favorite hill. The boy didn’t need a reminder of what happened.

* * *

  
  


The sun was low by the time the mute was cleaned up, with the others having already finished their meal. He grabbed a modest amount of leftovers from the kitchen and ate alone outside, listening to the men sing in the chapel. The mute could never bring himself to enter the building. He didn’t think himself worthy enough. 

When the songs ended, he stood. Diarmuid was one of the first to exit the building. He walked head down, and jumped away when the mute touched his shoulder. Upon realizing who it was, his shoulders dropped and he looked down in shame. He didn’t flinch when the mute put his hand on the shoulder once again. The other monks moved around them, each heading back to their cells, but the mute ignored them. Diarmuid said and did nothing. He simply stood there and looked upset. The older man gently ran a hand through Diarmuid’s freshly cleaned hair and let his hand rest at the base of his head. The boy relaxed a bit at the touch and looked up at him, still saying nothing. His eyes looked lost. 

“Diarmuid,” said Ciaran, causing the mute to withdraw his hand. “Please return to your cell. I wish to have a word with your companion.”

Diarmuid turned to look at the older monk who now appeared beside them. He nodded lightly and walked away, leaving the two older men behind.

“I assume you witnessed what happened earlier, judging by your reaction,” the monk said, looking away from the younger boy and focusing his attention on the layhand. 

The mute raised his chin, giving the other man his full attention.

“The boy hasn’t said a word since then. That’s quite out of character for him, as you would know.”

The mute ran his thumbs over the knuckles of his balled up fists. 

“I am merely a man of medicine, with knowledge of the body, not the mind,” he admitted with the smallest inkling of a laugh. “However, I feel it would be good for the boy to talk about it, whether it be with God or with his friend.” Brother Ciaran put a hand on the mute’s shoulder, taking the mute by surprise. The men usually avoided touching him. “He speaks to you more than anyone, perhaps even God himself. Even if you have no voice of your own, I hope you can help him regain his.”

Slowly, the mute broke eye contact, and Brother Ciaran gave his shoulder a pat as he dismissed himself. He fully understood why the boy hadn’t said anything to the others. It wasn’t exactly an easy topic to discuss. He wasn’t sure how he could help, but he would do anything for Diarmuid. He’d have to at least try.

The monks were gracious enough to give the mute a cell in their housing area, so they paid him no mind as he walked past several of them on his way through the building. He didn’t go to his room, however, he instead went to Diarmuid’s. 

It was empty.

He looked either way down the hall and didn’t see the young monk anywhere. He wondered if he went to sit on his hill instead. Before dashing out of the building, he thought instead to go to his own cell to fetch a blanket in hopes of comforting his friend. He walked back to the last cell of the building and entered his room.

Diarmuid was sitting on his bed, knees pulled up close as he tucked himself into the corner as much as possible. The mute quietly closed the door behind him, took off his boots, then sat on the other end of his bed, legs crossed, staring at Diarmuid. The boy finally looked at him, head resting against the stone wall. 

He looked away quickly, eyes blinking rapidly as they started to gleam in the low light. The mute could see him chewing his tongue, either trying to think of words to say, or prevent himself from saying them. He wrung his sleeves with his hands against his biceps, and slightly withdrew into himself. It was hard to watch, seeing the young monk so distressed when he had always known the boy to be a beacon of light and hope, at least in his eyes. For the time being, the best thing he could do for Diarmuid was be there and wait for him to open up when he felt safe to do so. 

So, the mute stayed where he was, unmoving, doing his best to convey a sense of security, and that he was there for Diarmuid if he needed him.

It was a long wait, long enough for the lighting of the room to change along with the setting sun, but Diarmuid finally spoke.

“I thought they were traders,” he stared weakly, his voice already unsteady. He breathed out his nose harshly, shakily. “I didn’t see their clan marks until they were grabbing me.” He was trying so hard not to lose his voice to tears. “They kept saying weird things to me, and … and they were touching me. I tried to get away, I begged them to stop, but they wouldn’t.” 

He stopped talking to bury his face into his arms, curling tighter into a ball. The mute uncrossed his legs and scooched closer, putting his legs on either side of Diarmuid’s, getting close enough to nearly sit on the boy’s feet. He grabbed what he could of the boy’s forearms buried beneath hair. 

Diarmuid’s voice floated out weakly, “I hate this feeling.”

The mute urged the arms away from his face so Diarmuid would look at him. Tears flowed in constant streams down his face, and he was biting his lower lip to suppress his cries. Gently, the mute moved his head forward and nuzzled his forehead against Diarmuid’s while worrying soft circles with his thumbs against the boy’s arms. The boy released his lip and let out his sobs, his hands grabbing the closest thing they could find, which was the mute’s hair. They weaved in and clenched tightly, desperately, to the point it was painful, but the mute did nothing about it. He was more concerned about Diarmuid’s pain than his own. He always was. 

Eventually, he felt the boy move, so he backed up to give him space, only to have Diarmuid follow him. The youngster crawled between his legs and buried his face into the mute’s collarbone. Arms weaved under his and gripped tightly onto the cloth on his shoulder blades. He wasn’t shaking nearly as much as he had been in the field after the attack, but the mute could feel a damp spot growing on his shirt from Diarmuid’s tears. The mute wrapped an arm around his waist, and cupped the back of Diarmuid’s head, resting his cheek against the mess of curls. Whenever the boy gripped tighter, he would do the same.

It didn’t take long for the little amount of light the room had from the sliver of a window to diminish, leaving the cell dark around them. The crying had ceased, though Diarmuid still clung to him. Reluctantly, he pushed the boy off of his chest. It was late, and they both should be in bed. He went to move away, but Diarmuid pulled at his shirt, preventing him from standing.

“I don’t want to be alone… in my cell …” Diarmuid practically whispered. 

The mute couldn’t help but sigh and give the back of his neck a squeeze. 

“Can I stay here? With you? At least for tonight?”

Since it was hard to make one another out in the darkness, the mute grabbed Diarmuid’s hand and placed it against his face so the boy could feel him nod in response. Now that the boy felt less on edge, he let go of the mute, letting him stand and strip from his work clothes into sleeping attire. Diarmuid simply removed his scapula and remained in his robe. The mute fetched a blanket from the shoddy wooden drawer beneath the bed and threw it over them as they huddled awkwardly to fit them both on the mattress made for one. The mute’s pillow was fairly small, so he pushed it towards Diarmuid and used his own arm as a pillow instead. He made sure he was on the outside of the bed while Diarmuid was inside, with a wall on one side and a man he trusted on the other. It felt like the position would grant the greatest sense of security for his bedmate.

Once they had settled and the room was quiet, the body next to him spoke.

“Thank you,” Diarmuid said softly, “for saving me.”

The mute found his wrist in the darkness and rubbed it lightly before resting his hand there for the night.

He would always try to save Diarmuid in hopes of somehow thanking the boy for saving _him_. For finding the scrap of a human that was left after the crusades that had no reason to be alive, yet giving his all to nurse him back to health. For staying by him, constantly vouching for him, saying the words he could not say himself. For greeting him everyday with a smile on his face and giving him a reason to keep living. For loving him when he was beyond deserving such things. 

Diarmuid saved him in more ways than he can count, and because of that, he would do his best to save Diarmuid from everything that would bring harm to him.

No matter what the cost.


End file.
